‘Oh God, it’s shocking,’ he said, taking up his fork, but he did not know what he was responding to.

‘Are you listening to me?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘I said to Niall that we might have a weekend in Galway over his Easter holidays. What do you think about that?’

‘Oh, that’s a good idea,’ he said, as the potato burned the roof of his mouth and the food spilled out onto the plate.

‘Here you go,’ his wife said, handing him the dishcloth.

He wiped his chin and saw that his son was looking at their faces in turn, examining them. He felt something on the back of his hand and looked down to see his wife’s fingertips placed gently there.

‘It would do us good to get away,’ she said.

And then he remembered what it was he had been looking for. He lifted his head and saw, at the end of the table, the contract, one half sticking out of the envelope with his wife’s signature clearly visible.

He watched Izzy clearing away dishes, the studied, clean movements she made. She knew she was being watched, her eyes alert and fearful, like a single dropped fork could bring the house crashing down.

All that night James moved around his home slowly, carefully, like any sudden movement or misjudged step might disturb the deceit he found himself participating in. It was not until several hours later, when he pressed the button on the remote control and watched the image on the television disappear, and climbed the stairs to his bedroom, that he allowed himself to believe the turn of events his life had taken was in any way real. Sitting in front of her dressing table was Izzy, every object that had been moved to the spare room now returned to its rightful place. She was wearing a white sleeveless nightdress, rubbing lotion on her arms. She looked up at him with a vague smile. He sat on the end of the bed and caught her eye in the mirror. He felt his shoulders loosen and stared down at the floor. He pulled off his shoes, tossed them aside. He heard his wife’s soft footsteps, felt the mattress dip beside him.

*  *  *

In her bed that night Colette Crowley lay on her side, her knees drawn to her chest, moaning softly. She had had a lot to drink. Phrases she’d written that day lumbered in her stomach. Sometimes, a soft flutter would pass through her, like the gentle beat of a bird’s wings, and she’d allow one of these phrases to grow larger, more insistent, to quell her panic at the thought of the child growing inside her. But like a fog finding its way through some crevice in her mind, the knowledge that nearby there was someone who wished to do her harm would rise up and enshroud everything. In the morning she’d need to begin the process of packing up her life. But at some point the gabble in her head quietened and all became silence and blackness and she fell into a deeper sleep than she had experienced for months.

*  *  *

In her bed a few hours later, Dolores Mullen turned and woke. Six months pregnant, and neat as she was, the slightest movement roused her. She settled on her back and stared at the ceiling, trying to render her mind blank. She looked to the side and saw that her husband was not in bed with her and was overcome by a feeling of emptiness. But when she closed her eyes again, she heard him entering the room. He was panting. His footfall was soft and she realised he had taken off his boots. So often he dropped down on the bed and made a great performance of pulling off his boots and discarding them on the floor, huffing and puffing as he went. Tonight he had shown her this small consideration. She opened her eyes and saw him fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, becoming agitated, pursing his lips, trying not to sound his vexation. When he climbed into the bed and pulled the covers up over him, she could tell by the stillness of him that he was just lying there, stiff as an antenna, listening out for something. The child moved inside her. She felt a tightening in her chest.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.

He did not answer. And then even the moist rasp of his breathing evaporated. He was holding his breath. The silence was complete, and into that silence a low thrum entered and rose up around them. It was like an engine heard from a distance. Or a roar coming from a mouth with a hand clamped over it. The noise was not loud, but it was everywhere, as if they were inside it.

‘Donal – what’s that?’

‘Shut up and go to sleep,’ he said.

‘Donal – you need to go out and check what that is.’

She sat up, moved the bedclothes aside. She felt his hand grip her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh.

‘Stay where you are,’ he snarled.

He swung his legs out of the bed and slowly began to gather his clothes off the floor. Dolores felt a cold sweat prickle her back, the long T-shirt she wore clinging to her in patches. ‘Hurry up, will you, before the children wake,’ she said. But still he did not quicken his pace, buttoning his shirt with care and tightening his belt. And before he left the room he cast an eye at the window. The curtains were closed but when she looked over at them there seemed to be light leaking from the narrow slit where they almost met. She climbed out of the bed and walked towards the light and when she pulled one curtain aside the brightness stung her eyes. She squinted up at the cottage. The right side of it was ablaze, flames flowing down from the windowsill and black smoke rising up, absorbed by the night sky. Grey smoke blew from the kitchen window. She was hypnotised for a moment by the unreality of it, the purity of the flames and the way, like water, they appeared to lap and lick at the air so that the night seemed marbled with fire.

‘Donal!’ she screamed. ‘Donal – call the fire brigade.’ She ran down the hall and saw him standing before the living room window, bathed in light, staring up at the cottage with his hands on his hips. ‘Donal – what the fuck are you playing at? Call the fire brigade.’ But he did not move. She ran to the phone and was dialling the numbers when Donal grabbed the phone and pulled it from her.

‘Let me go up and check first,’ he said.

‘What are you talking about? The place’ll be a shell by the time they get there. Is she up there? Do you think she’s up there? Jesus Christ, what are we going to do?’

‘Don’t be getting fucking hysterical. I’ll go up and check.’

‘You’ll not get next or near the place. You’ll be burned alive.’

And when he opened the front door a waft of heat entered the hallway but even still she was shivering and her teeth were chattering and her mouth was emitting some sound, some garbled nonsense that was just pure fear, just her body’s response to the terror she felt – and then she realised she was praying.

She called after her husband, who was already some distance away, sidling down through the front garden. He stopped at the foot of the hill and tilted his head back to look up at the cottage. She lifted the receiver again but let it hang loosely in her hand. Her husband turned and looked at her and then began to stride back towards the house. When he reached the front door, his face was beaded with sweat.

‘Now you can call them,’ he said.

*  *  *

Izzy Keaveney could not sleep that night. As morning approached she got out of bed and as she passed along the landing she stopped at the window and saw the strange light over the headland – the smoke rising up through it. She stood staring at it for some time until she felt her legs weaken and gripped the windowsill. She began to descend the stairs, holding tightly to the banister, as though with each step she was slowly lowering herself into the tide. In the kitchen she sat at the table and waited for the kettle to boil. In her mind she saw the sign on the front of the cottage that read ‘Innisfree’. For always night and day, she thought. For always night and day. And a flash of terror sparked and shrivelled inside her.

She dressed quietly while James turned in his sleep. She got in her car and drove. It was barely light when she crossed the bridge into the town. Passing the little park that fronted the seashore, she noticed a flush of crocuses, purple and white, had shot up at the foot of the old oak tree. In the low tide, the boats cowered at the pier. Outside the Reel Inn, the two petrol pumps stood sentry over the deserted town. Pulling off the Shore Road and onto the Coast Road, the bay appeared in front of her, the morning light breaking through at the horizon. Low cloud decked the sky, so richly textured she felt she could reach out her hand and touch it. She slowed as she neared the beach, parked at the turn. At the entrance to the Mullens’ property she saw two Garda cars parked nose-to-nose. The entrance to the cottage was blocked with police tape, and all that was left at the top of the drive was a charred ruin.

Chapter 24

Niall stared at the clothes his mother had laid out on his bed – a grey cardigan with fat buttons wrapped in brown leather, black trousers, and a white shirt. A pair of black lace-up shoes lay at the foot of the bed. He had asked his mother the day before if he should wear a tie and she’d told him not to be stupid. He’d found her in her room, just sitting on the end of her bed, staring into space. He’d caught her eye in the mirror on her dressing table, but at first she didn’t move or speak, like she was pretending not to have seen him.

‘But will Carl be wearing a tie?’ he’d asked.

‘Oh, probably,’ she’d said. ‘But it’s not your mother who’s dead, so don’t be looking for notice.’

His face had gone very hot then. But no matter how hard he tried, once his face had that hot, stinging feeling, he could never stop himself from crying.

His mother had been like this for the past week, saying mean things all the time to him, and his father, and Orla. Orla had come home from school for the weekend and sulked the entire time because their mother wouldn’t let her go out and meet her friends. ‘I just want yous where I can see you at the moment, is that too much to ask?’ she’d said. And every night, when she thought he was asleep, his mother came into his room and sat on his bed and brushed his hair from his forehead. But he didn’t let her know he was awake in case she left.

Niall took off his pyjama top and bottoms, kicking aside his underpants, and slid on the fresh grey pair his mother had laid out for him. He put on his shirt and buttoned it in front of the mirror, and was still convinced he’d look better with a tie.

‘Niall!’ he heard his mother shout from downstairs. ‘Right, come on, we’re leaving in two minutes.’

He picked up the book on his bedside locker. He checked the page he’d stopped at. He’d reread a few of these poems every night since Colette had died. He remembered that when he’d shown it to his mother, she’d looked at it doubtfully, turning it over in her hands like she’d never seen a book before. ‘Jesus, look at the size of that,’ she’d said. ‘You’ll never get through all of those. Are they for children?’ But they weren’t children’s poems, or at least not all of them were – and Niall had read every single one.

He put the bookmark back and pressed the book closed, feeling the thickness of it between his hands. He heard loud footsteps on the landing and the door flew open.

‘Niall, what in the name of God are you doing?’ his mother asked. She stared at the book in his hands and became very still. A concerned look came over her.

‘You were great pals, the pair of you, weren’t you?’ she said.

He nodded. ‘She was always nice to me.’

‘She was that way with everyone, pet. That was the kind of her.’

His mother was wearing a long black skirt and a short black blazer and a white blouse with a high neck and a brooch at her throat. The brooch was gold with a piece of black glass at its centre that caught the light.

‘Stop gawping at me, and get into the car,’ she said.